Lemon Tea
by Rachelea
Summary: Molly and John spill the tea on Sherlock and choose to live with the pain he has caused them. Follows the events of The Final Problem and Sherlock's fateful phone call to Molly. Trigger warnings for light implications of drug use and suicide.


**A/N: We see only bits and pieces of Molly's developing relationship with Sherlock, and resulting personal growth, in the show. I hate the common interpretation of Molly is nothing more than lovesick admirer; that mild behavior in the face of overbearing personalities betrays weakness. I also wonder a lot about the relationship between her and John. The first hint we have is in The Great Game, when Molly forgets John's name and, though annoyed, he defends her to Sherlock. **

**Though Sherlock's respect for her-and her own self-respect-increase, it's hard to say whether Molly ever gets her due. So I took one of the most emotionally charged scenes in series 4 and expanded on it. H****ere's my take. **

* * *

The reasons that successful, skilled, and attractive Molly Hooper is still single despite her best efforts are myriad and largely not her fault. It would be easy to leave it at that, but since the narrative concerns it, let's go further and pin the blame on men. Most males, Molly has learned, are either sociopaths, gay, allergic to cats, sociopaths pretending to be gay, or too cowardly to date a woman immersed in the supposedly unfeminine science of pathology.

It takes a long and doubtful study to conclude it, but Sherlock Holmes is none of these things. His overall decency, however, is in constant question, and the fact that he doesn't love her can be concluded with certainty.

It still hurts, Molly thinks in frustration, swinging the cabinet shut and slamming a mug against the counter. All this time, and that little prick of pain still hasn't gone away. Worsened, in fact. Swelled with doubt and self-loathing, infected by all of the horribly callous little things and the incredibly generous huge things he does. The worst thing about Sherlock is that every so often he reveals himself to be caring and selfless beyond the comprehension of most humans. And then, like clockwork-with careful and studied precision-he goes and absolutely, irredeemably ruins it all.

It's maddening. It's psychological torture. It's a wonder John has retained his sanity thus far, though Molly has begun to worry about him too ever since Mary's death. Not just the mourning, or the fact that he's letting anger fuel it. It's as though bachelors without a woman in their lives are doomed to self-destruct at some point; a neediness she's aware has fueled many a sexist and patriarchal stereotype throughout the history of the world, one ironically directed towards women.

Is she any better, though? Five years, and still mooning over the same selfish prick?

It's not just a crush, though, Molly thinks, plucking a couple of lemons from the produce drawer in the fridge. Never has been. That's the whole damn problem.

Thinking about her own role in this is disheartening, so Molly slams the door shut and switches to a male tactic: continue lambasting Sherlock Holmes. It's marginally more satisfying.

He's like malaria, Molly decides, swapping metaphors. Once under your skin he never leaves, simply pops up in the form of relapse every time you forget to take your quinine.

She runs the lemons under cold water for a moment, drops them onto a clean dish towel, and pulls a paring knife from the drawer. Even that is big and clumsy in her hand, compared to the fine scalpels she uses at work. Malaria. She laid out a victim once, a woman who'd recently been to Africa on a service mission and let the symptoms go for too long. Yellow skin and kidney failure. Long and drawn-out. Not a nice way to go.

The phone rings and Molly's lips purse in irritation, knife hovering over the cutting board. A glance at the vibrating screen and the emotion petrifies within her. Good. Anger or stone-those are the only ways to deal with Sherlock Holmes. And the former never lasts.

She doesn't have the patience to deal with this right now, so, Molly decides with a surprising sense of calm, she won't. It won't cost him _pain, _that's for sure. Won't evoke anything more than a bit of frustration at a delayed experiment on skin slippage or something, but that doesn't matter. Let _him _know what it's like to be ignored and not worth her time. Because he's not. Tea is the only thing on her mind right now.

The knife's motion is smooth and satisfying. Molly's always enjoyed cookery. People wonder why, with the nausea-inducing job she's got. But the rhythm is calming, the sunlit kitchen picturesque, the sharp scent of lemon as fresh and cleansing as always.

She slices her way through the first call, and the second. For several minutes she manages the mindful sort of detachment that has ironically only been possible as of late. Ever since the day it became clear that Sherlock's personal choices will lead him, sooner or later, to the ultimate form of self-destruction. Those thoughts are only peripheral, however. Won't look them in the face until his corpse is stretched on a slab in front of her, for real this time.

Since Molly's not thinking of that, here are some more proximal reasons:

Sherlock will give and give for some people, but from others he mostly takes. Molly is one of the others.

Sherlock has never truly needed anything from her. At best, it's a skill or resource he requires. At worst, she's a substitute, a stand-in for someone else.

If _she _called, Sherlock would certainly not bother to answer unless a very specific set of conditions were met, including boredom, fretful energy, a problem intellectual enough to suit him, and a high probability of wrangling a favor out of her for it later.

The fact that Sherlock Holmes is calling at all, instead of his preferred method of texting, indicates that he's in the middle of something in which she would really rather not be-

Molly puts down the lemon slice she's squeezing over her mug, wipes her hands on the tea towel, and picks up the phone. By now she's worked herself into enough of a zen that it honestly doesn't matter what he wants from her. She makes no effort to censor her tone.

Sherlock does, though. The lack of precedence is all the warning she needs. His voice is cautious, restrained, courteous, and making a ludicrously offensive request.

Molly neither laughs nor throws the phone at the wall, although looking back, she will think she ought to have done. It's just that...nothing matters right now. Nothing. And at this moment she understands Sherlock better than she ever has before.

Nothing matters, so you can do or say what you like without the slightest consequence to yourself. The feelings of others are not real. Just meaningless emoting that, like a leaf caught in the wind, will never have any significance unless caught and scrutinized. And whoever chooses to waste their time doing so deserves what they get.

The justification for this uncharitable interpretation is so blatantly inscribed in the request Sherlock has just made that Molly feels no guilt about it at all. Not even he is so oblivious.

An odd feeling, this detachment from consequence. The knowledge that whatever you dig up will be a burden borne by someone else. Molly rather likes it. She ponders, for several seconds, what burden she would like Sherlock Holmes to bear, and settles on the heaviest of them all.

The truth. What is there to be ashamed of?

But when she speaks it into the phone, she's crying.

* * *

Molly lives alone and doesn't get many visitors, so when the doorbell rings a week or so later she drowses for a few moments in uncertainty before prying Toby off her lap and getting up to answer it. On the way she bends to retrieve the book that fell beneath the sofa from her sleep-numbed fingers. _Middlemarch._

This small flat is Molly's refuge from the world. She alternately loathes and enjoys her alone time, and today is more than a little dismayed at being intruded on. This must show on her face when she opens the door. Standing like a lost puppy on the step is John Watson.

Molly thinks of a whole host of pleasant greetings and doesn't say them. The omission goes unremarked-upon by John, who has apology written all over his face.

"May I come in?" he asks finally.

Molly stands aside. They go into the kitchen, because she remembers hearing John say once that he doesn't like cats. She's not concerned for John's sake, frankly, but hates it when Toby goes underappreciated. A lot of supposed men of science are oblivious to any miracle of intelligence that isn't human.

Molly Hooper and John Watson are of the same mind in one respect, however. They're seated at the tiny kitchen table with steaming mugs of tea in hand before any conversation of moment occurs. John starts it, and they exchange pleasantries of the sort they rarely have before, because it's generally Sherlock who brings them together and Sherlock is not one for small talk.

That Sherlock has brought them together now can hardly be in question. Yet John sidesteps it for so long that Molly finds new reserves of last week's callousness within her before he gets around to it.

"Molly," he says, pushing his now-empty mug of tea aside and crossing his arms on the table in front of him. There's an earnestness in his expression that Molly recognizes from medical school, though she's never had to develop it herself. Difficult conversations with family are bypassed when the patient is already dead.

_John, _she thinks about replying, but instead listens, expressionless, to hear what comes next.

John himself doesn't seem to know. He hems and haws for a moment before coming to the point.

"About last week." He pauses, scrutinizes her. Molly says nothing. Whatever else John is, he is far more socially adept and considerate than Sherlock Holmes. She knows he wouldn't be party to any addition to last week's hideous insult. John deserves the benefit of the doubt, but something small and dark and hard curls in Molly's chest and refuses to give an inch.

"Sherlock-ah, mentioned that the two of you had an unorthodox phone conversation. He was concerned…that is..."

"Concerned?" Molly inquires, with a neutral aspect. It doesn't take more than half an IQ point to conclude that John's conscience brought him here quite independent of Sherlock Holmes.

John's face tightens. He's watching some scene behind his eyes, doing his best to distill it into words. She knows the expression, has made it plenty of times herself, but John's answer is more honest than most of hers. He even meets her eyes, albeit reluctantly.

"Concerned...is the best word for it."

Molly is mildly surprised to find she believes this.

So he was concerned. Sherlock does, apparently, have some sense of her perceptions as a human being. Clearly it wasn't enough to preclude the call in the first place.

John reads this on her face, and hurries on.

"We were both worried about what it might have seemed like to you. No," he says, tapping his fingers on the table. "Sherlock didn't ask me to-"

"Of course he didn't," says Molly, waving him on. "But he doesn't seem to have stopped you. Against both of your better judgment."

John's gaze slides away. "I didn't tell him, either."

This is so utterly irrelevant that Molly lets out a soft, involuntary huff of laughter.

"He asked me to meet him at your therapist's house a week before you'd even heard of her," she says. "Don't you think he knows where you are now?"

John's eyebrows lower, lips press together.

"I'd be shocked if he doesn't," says Molly slowly, as a soft 'meow' comes from the living room. "Still, you were right about one thing: I don't want him here. What did you come here to say?"

"I'm not sure you'll believe me," says John.

"Let me guess." Molly presses the empty mug to her lips, closes her eyes. "Some criminal mastermind on the order of Jim Moriarty decided to threaten people Sherlock cares about to control him."

She knows this now, that Sherlock cares. Realizes she always has. His apparent disdain has probably saved her a bullet or two aimed at her head.

"So he did the most callous thing he could think of, either to drive me away or to convince whoever-it-is-this-time of his utter indifference towards me. Probably not all that difficult. How close am I?" Molly asks, pushing her mug aside.

John shuts his mouth.

"Enough," he says.

Molly lifts a shoulder. Tries to smile, and wishes she'd poured another mug of tea so she could look inscrutably at John over the rim. Something else is threatening to spill over instead.

"I hope you don't need the details," he says quietly. "It's a matter of-"

"No, I don't," says Molly, rising to clear the mugs. Ironic how many matters of national security that Sherlock Holmes, arguably the nation's biggest insecurity, is involved in.

"Ah...good," says John. "I just wanted you to know-however much of a prick he is-he would never hurt you in that way. Never."

Molly dumps the mugs in the sink and turns to face him.

"Of course he would," she says loudly.

John opens his mouth to protest, but Molly is sick of being told what to think of Sherlock Holmes. Her study, whatever it lacks in closeness, has been longer-term and more objective than John's.

"Don't tell me _you _haven't noticed_. _The people Sherlock loves the most are the ones he hurts the worst. Do you really have words to argue, John?" she asks softly, as he opens his mouth again.

The look on his face is unbearable. She's hurled a stake through his heart. Something she's never done to anyone before. But Sherlock Holmes taught her honesty as well as deceit.

"This is the first time you've looked me in the eye for years," she says, tracing a hand over the edge of the counter behind her. "I know very well what I-we-did to you, that day at Barts. I never apologized because Sherlock was right." She stopped. "I suppose it's possible he was right about this too. I hurt you worse than he hurt me. Yet here you are."

What has John come here for, anyway? Absolution, or an apology?

It takes about twenty seconds for John's voice to emerge. When it does, it cracks.

"Well…" he clears his throat. "Sounds like you...like you understand, then."

Molly turns away. She can't tell whether he is angry or not. Not that it matters. If he wasn't the ever-gallant John Watson, if she wasn't a woman, she'd already have received the same treatment Sherlock did-for dying or coming back, she still isn't sure. She treated the wounds herself, holding back gasps, as Sherlock trusted her to, at the deeper, half-healed ones.

_What do you want from me? _she longs to demand of Watson. Forgiveness? Atonement? And for, from, whom?

"Have you forgiven him?" she asks instead.

John's eyes give a very plain answer.

"Nor I," says Molly, turning away. "Maybe one day we'll both manage it."

* * *

The difference, Molly thinks, as she waves a subdued John out the door, is that Sherlock loves John, and he does not love her. She has wondered about this for years, with no small measure of pain. The fact that she was there, loving and understanding Sherlock long before Dr. Watson ever came along. She has the same skills, the same heart and intelligence, and more backbone than she's ever been given credit for. And yet John, and not she, became a fixture in his life, taught him what it means to be human. The second half of the dynamic detective duo.

What does John have that she does not, to pierce the tiniest rift in that oblivious heart? Why did it only widen enough to include her once he came along?

Molly knows she should be grateful for all of this, given what John Watson has been through over the years. But the ache is still there. She knows better now than to hope it will ever dissipate. It's become a part of who she is; her own particular brand of the longing that is a part of every human. The Buddha taught that desire is the source of all pain. She read that somewhere. But maybe-maybe when desire is gone, nothing else is left, either. Maybe reaching for something is what is meant by _sentience_. Perhaps the higher one reaches, the more extensive one's conscious. Perhaps the discomfort of it all is merely growing pains.

Maybe Sherlock knows none of this, and that is why he numbs himself against it.

Life, liberty, Sherlock Holmes. She feels tired and dizzy suddenly, and goes back to the living room. Toby is stretched on the couch, purring, belly exposed in a gesture of pure trust. Another figure stretches on the sofa beside him, carefully stroking behind the furry ears.

"You could have saved him the trouble," says Sherlock, glancing up from _Middlemarch. _

"You know John," replies Molly distractedly. "Trouble is his middle name. I have a bookshelf, you know. Why choose the one book I was reading?"

"I'm nearly through."

"No, you're not. That book is as dense as the Oxford dictionary."

Molly's been working on it for days. She throws herself into an armchair and Sherlock glances up, reads her exhaustion. Careful not to disturb Toby, he pushes himself up on his elbows.

"Molly. I-"

She can read indecision in his face. That he has caused both her and John distress is clear even to him. That he cares she can no longer doubt. But whatever he says usually makes it worse. She is curious as to what he will say, but doesn't want to relive it in her dreams.

Instead, she tells him the only thing she wants from him. And when he vanishes later-out the window in the spare bedroom, as is his wont-she doesn't worry about when, or if, she will see him again.

* * *

_You're still afraid, Sherlock. Still hiding behind things that aren't real. You've never resigned yourself to a long, full life on this planet. I love you, and it's real. I'm not kidding myself anymore. No more red lipstick or low-cut dresses. No more concessions I never should have made in the first place. _

_I'm not afraid to love a man who can never feel the same about me. You owe me a lot, but you don't owe me that. _

_We'll never be more than variables in each other's lives. And you're a wonderful, madly independent one. But if you cut this experiment short, Sherlock-if you let fear and needles use you up until there's nothing left-that's the only thing I'll never forgive. _

_Just...promise me, promise John...you'll stay._

* * *

Okay, he said, and she doesn't know whether to believe it. But she knows, after all this time, that there is no point to fear. None at all.


End file.
